"For every Manne there lurketh hys Wilde Beast." SARDUS AQUINAS (1512). I Brun, meeting Christopher one day, had asked him to tea in his flat, and then, remembering his interest in the Beaminster history, invited him to bring Breton with him. "I haven't seen him for years. I'd like to see him again." Christopher had accepted this invitation, and now on a sultry afternoon in June found himself sitting in Brun's rooms. Brun's sitting-room had a glazed and mathematical appearance as though, from cushions to ceiling, it had been purchased at a handsome price from a handsome warehouse. It was not comfortable, it was very hot.... The narrow street squeezed between Portland Square and Great Portland Street lay on its back, the little windows of its mean houses gasping like mouths for air, the hard sun pouring pitilessly down. No weather nor atmosphere ever affected Brun. His clothes as well as his body had that definite appearance of something outside change or disorder. He might have been, one would allow, something else at earlier stages before this final result had been achieved (as a painting is presented to the observer before its completion), but surely now nothing would ever be done to him again. Surveying him, he appeared less a man with a history, origins, destinies about him than an opinion or a criticism. He was designed exactly by Nature for cynical observation, and was intended to play no other part in life. "Well, Christopher?" said Brun. "Hot, isn't it?" "My word--yes. Breton's coming along presently." "Good. I've asked Arkwright the explorer. Nice fellow." They sat in silence for a little. Then Brun said: "Interested in writers, Christopher?" "Not very much. Why?" "Just been lunching with a young novelist, Westcott. What he said interested me. Of course, he's very young, got no humour, takes himself dreadfully seriously, but he asked my advice--and it is as a sign of the times over here that I mention it." "Go ahead." "He tells me that a number of young novelists are going to band themselves into a kind of Artists' Young Liberty movement--artists, poets, novelists, some thirty altogether--going to have a magazine, do all kinds of things. Some of the older men will scoff. At the same time----" "Well?" said Christopher. "They'd asked him to join. He wanted my opinion." "What did you say?" "He interested me--he was a kind of test case. It would mean that, commercially, from the popular point of view, it would put him back for years. Those young men will all be put down as conceited cranks. They will tilt at the successful popular men like Lawson and the others, will worship at the feet of the unsuccessful 'Great' men like Lester and Cotton. The papers will hate 'em, the public will be indifferent. The result will be that, in the end, they may do a big thing--at any rate they'll have done a fine thing, but they'll all die on the way, I expect." Brun spoke with enthusiasm unusual for him.